Not Our Family
by HeCallsMeHisChild
Summary: This sort of thing happens to other families. Not us. It's impossible. How could I not have seen it? What am I doing wrong? Why can't I fix it?
1. Professor

**Note:** Only this first part is told in Prof. Membranes POV. The rest will be from Dib and Gaz. Yes, this is an INCREDIBLY short beginning, but I had to get this idea down before it slipped off.

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_Smile. Nod. Assure them you understand. Of course, it happens all the time._

_No. Not to my family. Not to my daughter._

Professor Ivan Membrane touched his forehead to the one-way glass window, looking in as a weasely, smarmy therapist tried to get a response from Gaz, but all he got was a hateful glare and threats of horrible doom. He'd learned to keep his distance--that any approach closer than four feet meant a tantrum beyond comprehension.

In the adjoining room, a second therapist sat with Dib. The boy avidly poured out all his knowledge on aliens and paranormal studies, recalling detailed bits of information most would miss. Membrane shook his head sadly. _Such a waste._

His attention was recaptured as Gaz's therapist entered with a pen and notepad. "Professor, hello." He flashed a syrupy smile. Membrane steeled himself and responded with practiced politeness.

"Well?"

The smile drooped slightly. "Well, I'm a bit surprised you didn't bring her in sooner."

"What are you talking about? This is the first opening I've had in my schedule for months."

"No no no, I mean, I'm surprised you didn't bring her in when she was younger." At the Professor's confused look, the man pushed his glasses up, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You didn't notice the symptoms before?"

Alarm rising, he grated, "Symptoms?"

Wordlessly, the man handed over the legal pad. Membrane hesitated, unwilling to seal his daughter's fate with a label. But his gaze inevitably dropped to the scrawl that confirmed his fears.

_This can't be happening to me._

He heard a second door open and close behind him, admitting Dib's psychologist. He already knew what she had to say, he'd known for years. Only now, it had a name. _A label._

She began with her diagnosis and recommendation, but her voice seemed faint, distant. His eyes drifted back toward Gaz. _Not us._


	2. Gaz

_Bip. Bop. Blip. Boop. Bip. Bip-bip-bip-bam._

The vampire-piggy hunter slays pig after pig. Impaling each on his blade, he gives a vicious twist to make sure they're dead, then moves on to the next. They grow larger and larger the farther he gets.

_Bop. Bip. Bloop. Bam-bam-bop-bip._

He spins, twists, leaps, and stabs with practiced accuracy. It's so easy, she could do this with her eyes closed. And why not? She's guided him through his missions exactly 3,785 and a half times. She lets her eyelids droop, obscuring half the screen. She won't close her eyes completely, that's too much of a change. Just half-way is good enough. Maybe another time she'll try--

A squeal of victory erupts from the handheld game as a piggy sinks its fangs into the hunter's neck. Her eyes fly open and she pushes buttons frantically. "No..." His power level is dropping. He manages to impale the offending pig, but others are closing in and he's too weak to fight them off. She is helpless to do anything as he is buried in a mass of blood-sucking porkers.

Her teeth grind so loudly that it draws a look from Dib. She doesn't care. Once they get back to the house, she'll fix her world. Things are all wrong now, horribly wrong. She lost on level 115. She _never_ loses on such a low level before, unless you count the times Dib or Zim throw off her concentration, but then she makes sure that they pay. She wills the car to go faster. Her sense of control is rapidly slipping. She will _not_ make a fool of herself in front of everyone. She's not like those idiots she's seen on TV, flapping their arms like mad and rocking themselves for hours. She can control it, turn it into something else. Or at least, make it look like something else.

They won't reach home fast enough. She purses her lips and whispers, "Alien."

Her brother's head whips around, eyes wide. "Where?! Where's the alien? Is it Zim? What's he doing? When I catch him, I'm gonna--ow!" One well-placed flap catches his cheek, planting a large, red mark on his face. He glares at her, but she ignores him. She's made herself just enough control to last the rest of the way home.

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Once in the house, she runs to her room, locking the door. Anxiously standing in the middle of the room, she stretches her arms out as far away from her body as she can, and begins to spin. Slowly at first, then faster and faster. The walls twirl and blur around her, their colors shifting and running together. She stops very suddenly, her mind protesting this action. The room keeps moving, but she is a rock. She stands still, untouched by the reeling surroundings. A bitter smile curls her lips.

_I'm in control. I make the changes around here. Nobody else gets to._

The room staggers to a standstill, swaying some from its drunken lurchings. She snorts contemptuously and unlocks her door, heading for the kitchen. It's six, and she has to have lunch. Not at eight, not at seven, and not at six-thirty. Six. She opens the fridge and pulls out a can of Splody Beans, checking it off in her mind. _Beans are dinner Tuesdays and Thursdays, and hamburgers Wednesdays and Fridays. Mondays it's hot dogs, and Saturdays and Sundays I get pizza._ She smiles to herself. She likes pizza. She would eat it every day if she could, but Dib won't let her. Her glare returns. _Stupid Dib._

She scans the fridge shelf for her daily can of Poop Cola, and freezes. _It's not there..._ Her thoughts begin to come fast, too fast for her to process. They pile up like dirty socks, all screaming to be let through at the same time. She puts her hands to her ears, forcing herself not to scream and rock. Three words shatter the chaos, restoring order.

_He will pay._

She storms to his room, plowing through the door. Dib looks up, and she takes satisfaction in the fact that he can't tell if she's really angry or just frustrated. Her face always stays the same. She doesn't know how to make different faces, there are too many, and they end up being confusing. She's found two or three, and they work for everything, so she's not about to change that. But she's going to make _his_ face change. She likes it when his eyes get big and he makes scared sounds. It makes her world right again. She can flap at him all she wants, and for all the world it looks like she's beating him. Maybe she is. She doesn't know. All she knows is that it looks like something it's not, which is good, because then no one will find out.

But someone did find out. Dad took her to see a new person, and he asked stupid questions in a stupid room, and when he got close to her she screamed. She'll never forgive Dad for a change that big without telling her. It's never as bad if he tells her, but of course he doesn't. He barely knows her. Dib knows better, he tells her about every change--except when he takes the last of the cereal and cola. Then he knows to hide, because she'll flap him.

As her arms flail, connecting with her brother's face and upraised arms, she sneers at Dad. _He's stupid. Dib and I figured it out long before he did. We don't need him telling us what we already know. We're not dumb. We know what it is without a stupid name._

_I know I'm autistic._


	3. Dib

He gropes for his glasses, finding them about three feet away. "Guess I should'a seen that coming," he mutters, replacing them on his face, "What with all the changes going on today, she was bound to do that sooner or later. Man, I gotta stop talking to myself." He winces, rubbing his cheeks. "That's gonna leave a mark." Shoving himself to his feet, he surveys the damage. Books tossed to the floor. Computer spitting sparks. Posters torn down and crumpled.

Mechanically, he sits by the pile of books and begins re-shelving them. Tallest to shortest, right to left. It all looks neat and organized that way. He turns to the posters and smoothes them out, making a mental note to put them under cloth and iron them later. Lastly, his computer. He pulls off the false front, along with its hard-wired sparking device, and sets it aside for repair later. The real computer, underneath, is in perfect shape. He pats it lovingly, then walks toward his door. He rests his hand on the knob.

_Right. Left. Right. Open._ He treads lightly down the hall, avoiding the dark green tiles. Stepping on them always makes him feel anxious, so he stays on the light green patches.

Although he isn't as shaken by the day's events as his sister, he finds it difficult to brush off the feeling of betrayal. He snorts. He's had to deal with it for years, why does it still bother him? Perhaps because the psychologist had nodded, taken notes, and listened to every single thing he'd had to say. It was more than his Dad had ever done, so he'd had some hope, until she'd walked out of the room in the middle of his last, winded sentence. Then he knew she was just there to label him.

He grits his teeth. He's been fully aware of his condition since he was five years old. He's known its name since he was eight. His Dad knowing it won't change anything. He kicks the wall in frustration. How many times will he let them trick him into thinking they care?

He wanders through the house, before realizing, dully, that there's nothing he really wants to do. He retreats back into his room. He gazes fondly at his poster-covered walls. He collects paranormal paraphernalia faster than a druggie can find a fix.

He snaps on his computer, and its warm-up buzz jars him uncomfortably. He snaps it off again, letting the buzz die off into silence. Then he starts it up again. The same sound comes from the computer, but now it's a comforting hum. The blue screen illuminates his face, flickering welcomingly. He smiles and clicks on his favorite file, the one titled **Aliens**. He painstakingly documents his few glimpses of Zim that day.

He'd seen Zim come out to yell at GIR, who'd coaxed the lawn gnomes into playing volleyball, with him as the ball. He could tell by the tightness of Zim's outfit and the less-than-normal flailing he did that the alien was outgrowing his uniform. Also, Zim had put one contact in upside down, and his wig was unkempt. This, Dib presumed, was because he had been working hard on something and was short on sleep.

He leans back, his arms folded behind his head. He revels in the fact that he can, at any time, tell what Zim's mood is, decipher GIR's cryptic insanity, find which spots the lawn gnomes don't watch, know the weakest area in the Computer's defense system, and what crazy phrase to yell so Zim's attention is focused on something else. He knows enough about Zim, his accomplices, and his gadgetry to write books. But he still doesn't know enough. He doesn't know why water burns the alien, why he screams all the time, what his leaders really sent him to Earth for, and why he hasn't abandoned GIR yet. He growls in frustration. _What good do details do if the facts they're connected to don't explain anything? I need to know everything about the situation, but I'm missing so many pieces._

Angrily, he snaps off the computer and kicks his chair. Morose, he flops down on his bed, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark galaxy spattering his ceiling. It isn't like the night sky at all. The stars are grouped in threes, and two planets bookend the scene, with one more in the middle. All nice, neat, and organized. Three is a comforting number. Dib often measures his steps on the way to Skool, careful to ensure that his last step before entering is divisible by three. It's difficult, because he has to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk too, but he manages it most of the time. When he can't, he knows he'll have a bad day. Well, most of his Skool days are bad days, but those days are the worst.

Dib's ears catch something. He sits up, straining to hear. It's a muffled sound, coming from across the hall. It sounds like Gaz. Cautiously, he leaves his room, turning his knob three times, and knocks softly. "Gaz?" The sound stops. When no death threats sound out, he meekly opens the door. "Gaz, are you okay?"

It used to be a nightmare. If anything happened, or there was any change, she would throw herself on the ground and scream. She wouldn't move, wouldn't reason. She refused to speak until she was five, and even then only when absolutely necessary. To clip her nails, she had to be held down by all four limbs. Eventually, Dad had invented a robot to hold her down and de-claw her. _Easier for a robot to ignore her terror,_ Dib thinks bitterly. Finally she discovered videogames, and the house fell into blissful silence. At first, Dib had relished it. But soon he began to loathe the console that was his sister's life.

_"Take it away from her, Dad! She won't do anything else, she doesn't even leave the house except for Skool!"_

_Dad chuckles. "Now now, son, videogames never hurt anyone. You'll see, your sister will turn out fine."_

Dib had figured out what was wrong with Gaz very quickly. The internet provided long lists of symptoms and behaviors to look for, and one day he'd asked her to come in. He'd pointed to the screen, explaining it to her. He'd expected shock and tears, but she simply stared at the screen.

_"That makes sense. I guess."_

Then she'd walked out.

He'd turned back to the screen, his attention caught by the new list of symptoms and behaviors that flashed onscreen. At first, he'd frowned, scrolling through it. Moments later, he'd also tilted his head to the side. _"This does make sense."_

Gaz sits in bed, curled up in her bunny pajamas. She wipes her cheeks, and Dib knows she's been crying. Hesitantly, he sits next to her. She doesn't hit him, she doesn't glare at him. She stares down at her hands, head bowed. He puts an arm around her shoulders, and she leans into his hug. His heart melts. She never lets anyone touch her, except Dib and Dad. And even then, hugs are off-limits unless she's had a difficult day. He wraps his arms around her and rocks back and forth, feeling her tears soak into his shirt.

"We're screwups, aren't we? Experiments gone wrong. Malfunctioning equipment." His sister's words shock him, and he tightens his hold.

"No. No we're not. Those stupid psychoanalysts don't know what they're talking about, and Dad doesn't understand. They're wrong, we're gonna prove them wrong. You hear me? We're gonna blow their minds with all we can do."

She smiles wanly. "You and your proof." She snuggles closer, listening to his steady heartbeat. _Thu-thud. Thu-thud. Thu-thud._ It doesn't change. It is constant, steady. He leans against the wall, still holding her close.

_I know I'm borderline autistic. I know I've got OCD. They think they know me? They think they know my sister? They don't know squat._


	4. Membrane

**Note:** Lookeeeee! I got to update while on the road. I'm still not at college yet, but I'm able to update tonight. Once I'm done with this, I'll work on the next chapter of Maneem. I already have an idea where I want it to go, and am thinking of extending it even further, or else working in a sequel. Wewt!!!

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He sat at his desk, hidden behind piles of papers and computer equipment. His head rested in his hands, and his goggles shone wetly.

_Where did I go wrong?_

He didn't understand. How was it he, the most intelligent man in the known world, did not manage to notice such blatant symptoms in his children? Looking back on past conversations, even Simmons had hinted at the probability. But he'd waved off the thought as statistical paranoia.

Barely aware of his actions, Membrane somehow performed all the necessary motions for entering his car and driving off. It was a miracle he didn't collide with anything, as his mind was far from the road. Left to itself, his body auto-piloted the car back home. For a moment, he just stared at the house, reluctant to enter. But the more he stared, the closer the door crept. His feet were moving, but his mind hadn't given the command. He watched with detachment as he lifted his key to the lock and entered his house.

_My house._ It couldn't be called his home. His home was at the labs. This was merely his house. Nausea gripped his stomach and he clutched his middle, reeling. He barely made it to the bathroom before retching into the sink, convulsed by his heaves. He stared sightlessly at the mess. _This… it can't be right. It's impossible, not our family…_

He rinsed and spat, clearing his mouth of the nasty taste. Absently, he made a mental note to have the maid-bot clean the bathroom. Pausing, he picked up a towel and began the task himself. _I live here. I can do this._

Finishing quickly, he threw the towel in the trash and walked quietly down the hall. A cursory glance at Dib's room showed it to be empty. He couldn't help rolling his eyes at the choice of décor, but softened when he spotted a poster of himself by the bed. Scrawled along the bottom in marker were the words, "World's greatest Dad."

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he retreated from Dib's room and peered into Gaz's. He bit his lip, fighting to keep control of himself. Dib leaned against the wall, arms around Gaz. They'd fallen asleep. In the faint light, Membrane could see dried tear tracks down their cheeks. He entered cautiously, and carefully removed Dib's arms from Gaz. He lifted her gently and laid her back down, head on the pillow. He drew the covers up and tucked them around her, hoping he hadn't woken her. He turned, oblivious to the small smile lifting the corners of his daughter's mouth.

He lifted his son, still small for a boy of eleven, and carried him from the room. Laying Dib in his own bed, he tucked the yeti-themed quilt around him. He was caught off guard by Dib's slurred, "Night Dad."

"Good night son." Membrane whispered, patting the scythe-like hair awkwardly. He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway, looking back, before continuing down the hall.

_The End._

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I leave certain aspects to YOUR interpretation. But know, from the author's point of view, this story did NOT end hopelessly.


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